


The Miracle at the Cloister

by Cactiintheminorkey



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, First Time, Historical, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Miracles, Nuns, Vaginal Fingering, council of trent, do you know how recently underwear was invented? extremely recently. because elastic, i looked up nun underclothing for this, medieval era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:41:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29391402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cactiintheminorkey/pseuds/Cactiintheminorkey
Summary: A nunnery in 16th century Italy resists the cloister. Aziraphale waits for a miracle. Crowley is a surprise.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 25





	The Miracle at the Cloister

Love was not the miracle. 

Aziraphale got the message on an extravagant card stock letter in Gabriel's annoyingly perfect hand. She'd been told to wait for religious happening, had, in fact, perhaps gotten too excited by the relationship that had begun to flower between Ursula, the shy Neapolitan noble, and Dina, third daughter of a wealthy family who had tucked her away at the Monastero Santa Rosa to pray for their souls. 

Aziraphale had taken the orders three months ago and their subtle hand holding, their fraught meetings in the garden, were the most interesting thing to happen in the intervening interval. 

"Ah, Sister Aziraphale. A letter from home? I'm glad they finally wrote."

Aziraphale tucked the letter away, giving the Mother Superior a vague smile. "Oh, they get busy," she said, which wasn't the half of it. 

"I'm sure," Mother Superior said, a little doubtfully. She'd already given Aziraphale a few talks on the joys of a religious community, how one's sisters eventually became one's family, supplanting entirely the one of birth. She thought, Aziraphale suspected, that Aziraphale was lonely. 

Aziraphale brushed down her habit, standing. The material was fine cotton - the convent catered to a higher class of women, whose devotion to god was both a stylist accouterments and a convenient excuse for their families. Nuns, after all, needed no dowries. "Is that all, Mother Superior?"

"I'm afraid not. We have a visitor coming. An Ursiline, who has fallen sick on her way to Rome. She needs a place to stay and- " 

Aziraphale had, through a rather generous bribe, secured a private room with space for her manuscripts. She raised an elegant eyebrow.

"We have nowhere else to put her," Mother Superior said. "It will just be for a week, until she's well."

"Of course," Aziraphale said. "I'll prepare a space for her." She'd have to move half the manuscripts, of course - there was barely room as - 

"You can show her now," Mother Superior said, gesturing at the stairway behind her, where sweet Ursula was almost entirely supporting her hereditary enemy, the demon Crowley. 

Crowley was slouched, veil hanging low, obscuring her eyes entirely, skin an unnatural pallor that Aziraphale hadn't seen in decades. Centuries, maybe. Aziraphale caught a flash of yellow beneath the veil and Ursula steered Crowley to Aziraphale, gently transferring her until Aziraphale had an armful of the demon. Her lightness, as always, surprised her. Bird bones, maybe, like whatever was underneath hadn't changed when she fell. Aziraphale had been built solid, a guardian, and she waited until the two nuns rounded the corner before lifting Crowley, taking her down the hall to her rooms. 

Even here, Aziraphale had carved out privacy for herself. The walls were made of thick granite, dragged down from the mountains outside the city, and though there were no windows, the room always seemed to create its own sunlight, as Aziraphale believed no angel should live in darkness. She shut the door behind her and set Crowley down on the bed, still perturbed by her new, insubstantial form. 

"Are you well?" She asked urgently, and then, "You can't be here. You shouldn't be here."

"Oh, are you on business?"

"I'm waiting for a miracle," Aziraphle snapped, and then, unable to help herself, "Are you hurt?"

Crowley dragged herself up into a sitting position, like it took the last of her strength. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse and shattered. "I've been better."

"What did they do to you?" They could have been anyone - Crowley made enemies faster than seemed possible, for a creature so charming. 

Crowley coughed, then glared at her, like she'd said something rude. "Ran into a few of your folks. Didn't make it out entirely unscathed."

"Show me," Aziraphale said. 

Crowley, like Aziraphale, was arrayed in a habit with wide, dark sleeves. She pushed one of those sleeves back now to expose an arm covered in bandages. "I said I thought it might be a stigmata and they sent me to Rome," she said wryly.

"That's not what a stigmata look like," Aziraphale said. And then, "How far up does that go?"

Crowley sighed, beginning to unlace the bandages. "Up to my shoulder, about. It should heal given time." Unwinding the cotton from her arm, she revealed a sharp cut, reddened, whose inflammation spread upwards, past Crowley's elbow, where her habit bunched, to parts of her Aziraphale had never seen. 

"Can I - " Aziraphale said, and Crowley held out her arm, without a question. Aziraphale sat on the bed beside her, cradling Crowley's arm in her lap, wondering what she'd done to earn this trust. But, no, she'd never earned it - Crowley had given it to her. Like grace, it was both priceless and completely undeserved. 

Crowley would make fun of her if she said anything of the sort. Instead, she traced the wound with her fingers, ignoring the way Crowley shivered. Even this gentle pressure must have hurt her. "You can't heal angelic wounds?" she asked. 

"It's, ah, harder," Crowley said, flush spreading from her arm all the way up to her face. Easily flustered and so trusting. Something about it made Azirphale want to grab her arm and squeeze - this, this is what it feels like when you trust people. But instead, she laid a hand there, coaxing that heavenly inflammation from her, knitting skin back together, making what was broken smooth. In three breaths, Crowley's skin had taken on a more healthy covering. Her arm looked normal, unharmed, if not yet strong. 

Crowley blinked those gold eyes at her, catlike pupils large and dark. Any moment, Aziraphale knew, Crowley would say something nasty to destroy this silence between them. But instead, her eyes fluttered and then slid closed. She hadn't said anything at all. 

Slowly, so as not to disturb her, Aziraphale put a hand on her forehead. It was covered in the cool sweat of a breaking fever. Who knew how long she'd walked, to arrive here? Where else on the religious, Italian coast could the demon expect to find sanctuary? She shifted Crowley, so she was laying on the bed, then removed her shoes and drew the blankets up around her. Though she knew it was a terrible idea, Aziraphale brushed Crowley's hair back from her face, so it wouldn't trouble her in her sleep. It was just consideration, she thought, as might be expected of an angel of the lord, but she'd seen Ursula in the garden, tugging a lock of Dina's hair, and she knew herself to be a liar. 

***

Typically, Aziraphale lost herself in manuscripts to the exclusion of everything else. It was the only thing which took her back to those first, heady days of creation, when the world was so very much itself, each moment intoxicating in its muchness. Even with the restless atmosphere in the convent, the result of the recent decision of the Council of Trent, Aziraphale had been able to use the manuscripts to regain her calm, to remember the beauty of the word. 

Today, nothing could distract her. She'd sat at her desk since ten, listening to the soft sounds of Crowley breathing. That, too, seemed its own world. She couldn't afford to enjoy it too much, she reminded herself. This joy was stolen. And, she was still waiting for the miracle - she was practically on the clock! 

She'd worked herself up into a state by the time Crowley awoke at the terce bells. She'd notice Crowley's breathing change the instant it happened, going from those slow exhales to a long, silent pause while, presumably, Crowley panicked about not being where ever she called home, and then a deliberate breath out and rustling. 

"Angel," Crowley called, voice high and demanding, and Aziraphale's shoulders finally relaxed. She was back to herself and none too soon. Aziraphale couldn't carry this all on her own. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale said. "How are you feeling? Would you like breakfast?"

Crowley shook her head. She still looked a bit peaky from yesterday, her hair limper than usual, her habit rumpled. "No breakfast for me, angel."

"And you're well?"

"I'm well," Crowley said. "I'll be out of your hair soon."

"Well," Aziraphale said slowly, a bit stuck. It was Crowley's job to coax her into spending more time together and right now she was certainly falling down on her side of the bargain. "I couldn't refuse to tend one of the injured," she said. "The least of us and all that."

"Oh yes," Crowley said. "You angels are quite known for your mercy."

"Well, you can't be angry at me about that!" Aziraphale said, gesturing to Crowley's injury. "They didn't know you at all!" This was a ridiculous argument. They both knew it. Aziraphale nonetheless lifted her chin and made steady, direct eye contact, daring Crowley to call her on it. After a moment, Crowley sighed and slumped back on the bed. 

"Sorry, angel," Crowley said, blinking at her. "I've become quite addicted to those coffee beans they've begun to use in Valencia. I"m not quite myself." 

"Are those good for you?" Aziraphale asked and Crowley shrugged, as if the issue of what was and was not good for frail human bodies was no concern to her. 

Outside, another bell rang, accompanied by frantic, running feet. Aziraphale stuck her head out the door and into the empty corridor. Dina poked her head out from the stairwell. She was, incongruously, holding a rather large rock. One that, if Aziraphale wasn't mistaken, had decorated the gardens out back. It had a peculiar, glossy sheen that Aziraphale had quite enjoyed. 

"They've come, Sister Aziraphale," Dina said, panting, the rock nearly too heavy for her. 

Aziraphale rushed out to steady her. "Who has come?"

"They've come to cloister us," Dina said. 

"Cloister?" Crowley drawled. She'd gotten up, somehow, was leaning in the door, her face entirely in shadow, hiding her golden eyes. Even in the habit, she was spindly, menacing, definitely poised to ruin everything, certainly in danger from the miracle which was not love and now, to judge from the languor of her posture, interested in the proceedings. 

Dina directed Aziraphale to set the large rock down by the window. "Oh yes," she said. "They've decided that while monks can leave their convent, nuns must remain within the convent walls in order to safeguard their virtue. They mean to wall us in, forever." Her voice cracked a little at that. Aziraphale winced, sensing Crowley's eyes on her. 

"That seems unreasonable," Crowley said.

Dina, with a quick, sharp gesture broke on of the panes of glass in the window. "We're half a mile from the sea. Three miles from my parents. And my little sisters! They need to come talk to me, they need my advice, my consultation. How can the lord want them to grow up alone?" 

"I don't imagine the lord would want that," Crowley said, in that same voice she'd used with Eve, oh so reasonable and honey sweet. Aziraphale was gesturing behind Dina's back, a short, sharp motion with her hand which meant stop, but Crowley wasn't looking at her. "God does have a thing for enclosures, doesn't she?" Crowley asked. 

Dina said, "What?"

Crowley said, "Is safety truly the highest good?"

Dina picked up the rock, heaving it up to her waist. "Just a second," she said, "Just wait a minute."

"What are you doing?" Aziraphale asked, but as soon as she said the words, it became clear what she was doing. The priests were down below and Dina balanced the rock on the sill, biting her lip as she timed it, before she pushed the rock out the window, right at the esteemed father's head. 

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley and Dina and pushed them flat to the ground. They waited like that, one second, and then two, while shouts rose up from the courtyard, a scream, and then yelling, and then the unmistakable voice of the priest. 

"Dina," Aziraphale said, "Go down the stairs quickly. You were never here." 

Dina scurried off. Crowley watched her. "You're going to just let her go."

"She was trying to do the right thing."

"I have first hand experience that says that's not good enough."

"Maybe not for Her. But it's enough for me." 

Crowley stared at her. Aziraphale had that sensation she sometimes got around Crowley, the inkling that she'd said something more than she meant, or something she hadn't meant to mean. 

From outside the window, there was another yell, then the sound of loud praying. Aziraphale squeezed her eyes shut. Crowley started to laugh, long and low and scratchy. "Oh, I believe you have your miracle, angel. Rocks from the sky, a miraculous close call."

Aziraphale waved a hand, mending the window above them. "Praise be," she said waspishly. Then, "Crowley, dear, I have to go deal with this. Can you occupy yourself?"

Crowley smiled at her. "Oh, I'm good at keeping busy, angel."

"Stay out of trouble," Aziraphale told her sternly, before hurtling downstairs. 

***

The convent had a different air that night. It felt claustrophobic, though the gates had only been closed for less than six hours. There was something about knowing you weren't allowed to leave that changed the character of a place in its entirety. Nothing could be a home when it contained such coercion. 

Aziraphale returned to her room to find Crowley sprawled in her chair, paging through one of the illuminated manuscripts she'd been working on. 

"Is that what a cat looks like?" Crowley asked with some amusement, pointing at the creature doodled in the margins. 

"It very well might be," Aziraphale retorted, knowing herself to be ridiculous. 

Crowley rose from the desk, wandering around the edges of the room in her familiar orbit. Standing there, Aziraphale felt pleasantly pinned by her gaze. 

"Your work here is done, angel?" Crowley asked. 

"Yes," Aziraphale said. She'd done it, as fully as if she'd boarded up the convent herself, produced a miracle, stones from the heaven, which only seemed to confirm the decision by the Council of Trent. She wished she could spirit the whole convent away but where was there to go, outside of Heaven's notice? 

Safety, Crowley had said, was not truly the highest good. But no, how like Crowley, it had been a question. 

Crowley's orbit had taken her somewhere behind Aziraphale and Aziraphale turned to meet her gaze. 

"Careful, angel," Crowley said, seeing something on her face. "There are questions you shouldn't ask." 

Aziraphale stepped forward, into Crowley's space, because there were ways to make declarations without any of those dangerous words, tilted her chin up, and kissed her. Crowley was as warm as she'd always imagined - and she had, with much shame, imagined her, the heat of her long fingers, the way once, the edges of her hair had brushed against Aziraphale's arm and what it might be like to wake up with that tousled hair splayed over her chest. 

Crowley put both hands on her shoulders, a barely-there touch that still spread a flush through Aziraphale. Aziraphale grabbed her waist and drew Crowley towards her. It had overwhelmed Crowley again, that dreadful, beautiful vulnerability, Crowley's curves molding to her curves, Crowley's hands in her hair, the faint tip of Crowley's tongue brushing against her lip, a question, and Aziraphale opened for her, fitting a thigh between Crowley's, intent on every little noise she made. 

"Come to bed with me," Aziraphale said and Crowley looked at her, eyes dark now and shuddered and nodded, like she couldn't even speak, her beautiful charmer, robbed of words. Aziraphale pulled off her own habit, then Crowley's, throwing the habits and undertunics in a pile on the floor and pulling Crowley into bed. 

Crowley ended up underneath her, short of breath, face dense with emotion. "This isn't safe," she said, "they might be watching."

Aziraphale said, "Please, Crowley - " and Crowley lay her head back on the pillow, hair spread out like a halo, and ran her ringers up and down Crowley's back, fingernails digging in just hard enough to make Aziraphale shiver. "Just this once," Aziraphale promised, and in that moment, she couldn't tell if she was sincere or not. She pushed forward, slotting her thigh between Crowley's, and Crowley cried out, wet and shuddering under her. "My dear," Aziraphale said, "My dearest," and she reached down and touched her, teasing her clit, then sliding two fingers inside her, feeling Crowley flutter around her, watching her bite her lip and tilt her hips upward, shaky and hopeful and Aziraphale started to fuck her in earnest, thumb sliding along Crowley's clit while her fingers worked, curving up into that place inside Crowley that made her gasp. Aziraphale could tell when Crowley got close, tightening around her, fingernails digging into Aziraphale's shoulder blades until she came, voice hoarse and high, a cut off syllable which was maybe angel, maybe Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale grinned down at her, entirely too smug, but she looked lovely like that, flushed and breathless, still pulsing under Aziraphale's hands. 

"You must let me - " Crowley said, pushing at Aziraphale, who obediently turned over, letting Crowley free, and Crowley made her way down Aziraphale's body, kissing the pink tip of her nipple, the curve of her waist, the plump of her belly, the crease between thigh and torso, until Aziraphale was wriggling, lit up with nerves, wet and on fire in the one place Crowley hadn't touched. Crowley gave her a wicked smile, raked her fingernails down Aziraphale's thighs, and then flicked her tongue out, as if to remind Aziraphale that she'd been a snake once and she still remembered. 

That first, soft touch of Crowley's tongue had Aziraphale moaning. She took her utterly appart, sucking on her clit, her fingers sliding inside Aziraphale, a hand playing with her nipples until she felt consumed, surrounded, overwhelmed. "Crowley," Aziraphale said, and "Yes," and "Please," and "my dearest," and maybe though hopefully not, "my love," and she shuddered and Crowley moved back, blowing on her clit, just as she was about to come. 

"You're gorgeous like this," Crowley said. 

"Don't stop," said Aziraphale and Crowley laughed at her and dived back in, doing something which produced a heavenly sensation, perfect and pure and sweet and without her intending it, Aziraphale's hips were moving and she was coming with Crowley's mouth still on her, coming saying Crowley's name, over and over, like a prayer. 

Afterward, they cuddled. It was a special sort of touch, Aziraphale had found, the touch you thought might be the last. Crowley curled up at her side, laying her head on her chest, and Aziraphale stroked her extraordinary hair. 

Beside her, Crowley slept. Aziraphale stayed up, and thought, and braided Crowley's crimson hair. Outside, the sky was thick with stars but everyone here was trapped between these heavy walls. All but the two of them. Not much more free than these nuns, no, but what a difference even one more choice could make. 

**Author's Note:**

> ok i'm lowkey obsessed with nuns and the bit about the nuns trying to murder the priests who were trying to cloister them? Definitely historically accurate, will come back and find my source


End file.
